


Pushing Sherlock

by round_robin



Category: Pushing Daisies, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s01e01 Pie-lette, M/M, crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was a boy with an unusual gift. It wasn’t his intelligence, which was formidable, it was something rather different all together. Young Sherlock had the power to bring dead things back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pie-lette

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this for about a day and a half, ever since I saw a Sherlock/Pushing Daisies fan art [this lovely art here](http://pawspaintsnthings.tumblr.com/post/73916801063/pushing-daisies-crossover-anyone-for-how-long). And although mine is the other way around (Sherlock is Ned and John is Chuck) I really enjoy this cross.
> 
> My favourite kind of crossovers are where characters from one show/book/work are put into the universe of another. I find these kind of crossovers the best and easiest to believe. Pushing Daisies is my favourite show of all time, so I am a little worried about not doing it justice. I'm trying to balance between the Narrator's awesome voice and my own. I'm also a little worried about going too blow by blow with the first episode and making it boring. I will try to mix it up a bit with "A Study in Pink" so let's hope this goes well.
> 
> I don't usually post WIPs, but I really wanted to post the intro to this one. I'm really excited about it. That being said: I promise to finish this. I ALWAYS finish my WIPs in a timely manner.
> 
> Not beta'd, and my S key is sticky. If you find typos, I would love to know about them. And the title is crap, so suggestions are encouraged and appreciated.
> 
> [hallowhatisthis](http://halloawhatisthis.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr made [ this](http://halloawhatisthis.tumblr.com/post/76761719123/what-if-you-didnt-have-to-be-dead-pushing) lovely edit for my fic. Thank you so much!

Our cast of players

 

The Piemaker: Sherlock Holmes

Chuck: John Watson

Olive: Molly Hooper

Emerson Cod: Greg Lestrade

Aunt Lily: Harriet Watson

Aunt Vivian: Clara Watson

Digby: Redbeard

 

Sherlock was a boy with an unusual gift. It wasn’t his intelligence, which was formidable, it was something rather different all together. Young Sherlock had the power to bring dead things back to life.

He learned of this gift when he was nine years, eight months, and twelve hours old. He was playing in a field with his dog, Redbeard, who was five years, six months, and eighteen hours old. And no older.

Young Sherlock watched, paralyzed with shock and soon to be grief, as Redbeard’s body was flung into the air by the passing lorry he was unfortunate enough to run in front of.

It was all his fault, Sherlock thought, as he reached out to touch his best friend one last time. As soon as he touched Redbeard, a spark of light zapped from Sherlock’s fingers and Redbeard was alive! He lifted his head and wagged his tail, then ran off to play some more. Overjoyed with this turn of events, young Sherlock chased after Redbeard, unaware of the suddenly dead squirrel that topped out of a nearby tree.

Though this gift had no box, no card, nor any sort of instructions, Sherlock would soon come to learn the rules in a most unfortunate manner.

~

He sat in the kitchen listening to the sounds of his mother baking pies. She loved baking pies and Sherlock loved being around her while she did it. The smell of the warm, baking pastry filled his nostrils as he stared out the window to the house just across. There, a boy called John played in the front yard, the remnants of their playdate around him. Fizzy concoctions made from Sherlock’s first chemistry set, and the little play dough soldiers John had been using to fight through Sherlock’s front of chemical warfare in the form of burst balloons that had exploded with the vinegar and baking soda bombs inside of them.

Sherlock couldn’t put a word to the feelings he had when he thought about John, he only knew that he liked thinking about John and their adventures. He couldn’t imagine a world where he and John couldn’t meet on the glorious play dough battlefield and see what sort of mischief they could make.

A loud crash behind him made Sherlock turn. There, he saw his mother lying dead on the floor. A clot in her brain had burst, killing her instantly.

Having only recently discovered his gift, he didn’t think of it right away. But then, yes, he could save her. Bring her back to life as if it had never happened. He reached out, finger shaking a little, and touched her cheek. A spark zapped from his finger to her skin, and her eyes opened and looked right at him.

“Must’ve slipped. Clumsy me.” She smiled and climbed to her feet. “Did the timer go off?”

She dusted herself off and went back to the oven. Sherlock could only stare. It worked! It actually worked! For nearly a month now, he’d nearly thought Redbeard was just a figment of his imagination. But he’d been able to reproduce the results of his first experiment and now his mother was still alive. Everything was as it should be.

His mother walked over to the window sill to cool the hot pie. The timer dinged and she gasped, losing her grip on the pie pan. Sherlock looked up just in time to see John’s father fall down dead, the hose pipe still in his hand.

The next few hours passed in a blur. He watched the police take the body away. He watched his mother console John as they waited for his aunts to come and take care of him. All the while, Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at his mother. Neurons darted through his head, pushing his intelligent brain into overdrive. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was responsible for this. That his mother should be dead, then brought back to life just as John’s father was suddenly dead was too big a coincidence for Sherlock to accept. He did it, he just knew it. He was responsible for this. He didn’t know how, but he would find out.

After a too long day, John’s aunts came and took him home. Sherlock’s mother kept shaking her head and muttering about the “tragic loss.” When she finally tucked him into bed for the night, she smiled fondly at him and shook her head again. “Alright, bed time.” she said, and leaned down to kiss him goodnight.

Another zap jumped from Sherlock to his mother and she fell back again. This was alright, Sherlock assured himself. Just like it happened before. He climbed out of bed and touched her again.

Nothing happened. He moved his finger away from her cheek and tried again. Surely a different spot would do it? Yet touches to her nose, lips, chin, and forehead did nothing. She was dead, and she stayed dead.

~

After his mother’s death, his father shipped him off to boarding school. It was a sad and lonely place, as fear of his unasked for gift kept him isolated from the other children. Sherlock began to wear gloves whenever possible. He told the teachers he had weak circulation in his fingers and they accepted it. Weakness however, was not accepted in quarters such as an all boys school and Sherlock had no friends.

He spent his free time working in the chemistry laboratory, experimenting with the parameters of his gift. He soon discovered the rules: first touch, life! Second touch, dead again. Forever. With jars full of lightning bugs, he discovered that his gift had a grace period: keep a dead thing alive for more than a minute and something else died in its place. That was it then, that was how he traded John’s father for his mother. And they’d both ended up lost and alone.

He also thought about John a lot, particularly their last meeting.

As their parents respective funerals took place in the same cemetery, they looked over at one another. Breaking away from their families, they walked into a more secluded part of the cemetery. They didn’t say anything, just looked at each other with the shared grief of such a great loss at so young an age.

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock squeezed the pudgy, pre-pubescent fingers in a silent thank you. Thank you for the comfort. Thank you for not being angry with me. Thank you for not knowing that I am responsible for this. He didn’t say any of these things out loud, of course, he just thought them very loudly.

Before John’s fingers slipped from his hand and they went their separate ways, a funny and overwhelming feeling seized Sherlock. He leaned forward, not entirely knowing what he intended to do. John, for his part, seemed to know exactly what was going on and leaned forward as well. He leaned farther than Sherlock until their lips touched in what would be their first and last kiss.

Sherlock would be sent off by his father, and John would be fostered by aunts Harriet and Clara, never to see each other alive again.

~

Years later, Sherlock would become the Piemaker. Baking was simply an edible application of the chemistry he so loved, and he so loved the memories of his mother’s pies cooling on the window sill. He opened a restaurant called the Pie Hole, so he could continue to relive the only happy memories he had.

He’d come to understand his gift and would use it to supplement his income. First, by using dead fruit for his pies and bringing it back to life. Grocers loved that he took the rotten fruit off their hands and Sherlock loved the price of next to nothing.

Second, through a private investigator named Greg Lestrade. Sherlock never told anyone his secret, but accidents happened. This accident came in the form of a rooftop chase and a criminal who couldn’t jump as well as he thought.

He fell down, he fell dead, and he toppled onto Sherlock. With his sleeves rolled up and not wearing his usual gloves, the man sprang back to life and continued running. Panic shot through Sherlock as he ran the man down. With one touch, he was returned to his dead again state, but not before Greg Lestrade had seen everything.

“Fifty-fifty split,” Lestrade proposed over a slice of three-plum. “I find us murder victims, you touch them and ask who killed them. Then we collect the reward money.”

“How do you know there will be a reward?” Sherlock asked. He sat across from Lestrade with his hands squeezed tight between his thighs, his shoulders rigid. Even around the living, he wasn’t fond of accidental touches. He wasn’t fond of touching at all.

“Murders always lead to a reward,” Greg said matter-of-factly as he slid his empty plate aside.

“You finished with that?” Molly asked.

Molly Hooper, the waitress at the Pie Hole, was twenty-nine years, two months, three weeks, and five hours old. And she was madly in love with Sherlock. Her attempts to connect with someone so disconnected from the human condition frightened her a little. But she stuffed those thoughts in a far-away part of her brain that she only looked at never. She knew the Piemaker appreciated her friendship, so it couldn’t be much longer until he appreciated her non-friend affection as well. That’s what she told herself and that’s what she believed.

Sherlock wouldn’t say he liked his life. Rather, he was comfortable with the way things had turned out. He wouldn’t have thought of using his gift to fight crime, but it helped pay the bills and get him out of the house. He even found it a bit interesting. He liked using his gift to help people and solve crimes. He never imagined he’d have any sort of nack for it, but it was just like his pies: baking was an application of chemistry, and solving crimes was an application of his intelligence and ability to solve puzzles. Actually, Sherlock would say that he liked his life.

One day as he was on his way out of the Pie Hole, his ear tuned into the news story still going on the kitchen telly.

“A local soldier recently returned from Afghanistan, was found dead this morning in an abandoned house. His name is being withheld at this time, but the police are treating it as an accident. A memorial service will be held this Friday."

All the air squeezed out of Sherlock’s lungs. He didn’t know how he knew, but for some reason, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he knew this soldier.

To be continued...


	2. A Study in Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade go to investigate the death of the soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do the Pie-lette/A Study in Pink episodes as one big chapter. Then the funeral scene went longer than I thought and I decided shorter chapters would be better for pacing. Also, I'm keeping a few of the names and locations, as they are suitably whimsical for the Pushing Daisies aspect. They are in London though. Sherlock still lives in London at 221B. He just happens to live over his pie shop with a stucco crust roof as well.
> 
> I'm not sure how far I'm going to get into either series, but I'm really enjoying this fic and I hope to do a lot more beyond the pilot episodes.
> 
> Not beta'd and my S key sticks. If you find a typo, I would love to know about it.

Our cast of players

 

The Piemaker: Sherlock Holmes

Chuck: John Watson

Olive: Molly Hooper

Emerson Cod: Greg Lestrade

Aunt Lily: Harriet Watson

Aunt Vivian: Clara Watson

Digby: Redbeard

 

“You interested in a conversation?” Lestrade asked.

Before Sherlock could answer, Molly floated over to them to take his order. Greg waved her off with a flick of his hand then turned back to Sherlock. Lestrade didn’t see it, but Molly shot him a look that clearly wished a sticky death on him, before smiling at the Piemaker. Sherlock gave her a nod. Trying to smooth things out between those two was never easy.

As soon as Molly was out of earshot, Sherlock asked “What kind of conversation?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “The kind that starts with a dead body and ends with us both making a lot of money.” As if they had any other sort of communication.

“You’re talking about that dead soldier.” Sherlock could barely say the words.

“There’s a lot going on with that dead soldier.” Lestrade said. “Found in an abandoned house and the official report is ‘accident.’ A lot of people aren’t buying that. Like I said: are you interested in a conversation?”

Sherlock lifted his steepled hands to his lips. “I could be persuaded.”

“How does fifty thousand pounds sound?”

“I am persuaded,” he said. “What are the details?”

“Ever hear of a place called Coeur d’Coeurs?”

A lump rose in Sherlock’s throat. “I grew up there.”

Lestrade looked him up and down. “That’s where the victim was from. Did you know him?”

“What’s his name?” Even before he said it, Sherlock could tell he did know this soldier.

Lestrade took a sip of his tea and said: “John Hamish Watson.”

If Sherlock were eating something, he would’ve choked on it. In any case, he choked on nothing, such was the shock of hearing that name. The soldier...

~

The next day, Sherlock sat in the passenger side of Lestrade’s car, staring miserably out the window as if he were being lead to his own funeral.

Staring straight ahead, Lestrade said “You knew this soldier.”

“Knew him before he was a soldier. I haven’t thought of him since I was ten.” Sherlock said.

“Think of him much when you were ten?” Lestrade asked.

He evaded the question. “Where are we going? There’s no coroner in Coeur d’Coeurs. They send all their bodies to the city morgue.”

“Not going to the morgue. We’re going to his funeral.”

“Already? They just found him two days ago.” Even if the police were ruling this an accident (shame on them for being such idiots) they would want to hold the body for all the evidence they could get to explain said accident.

“My contact was vague on that.” Lestrade’s contacts were always vague on things. Sherlock privately thought he had no contacts and just liked sounding official rather than being thought of as an ambulance chasing PI. “Something about his last wishes. Both his will and living will said he wanted an expedient burial.” He shook his head. “Bloody soldiers.”

Something in the back of Sherlock’s brain thought that odd, but he was too busy listening to the front of his brain as it said “finally, a chance to make amends.” Apologise to John Watson for the hand he played in the death of his father, and all of the strange feelings tied to John (which were no doubt guilt related) would go away. Yes, this was Sherlock’s chance.

After greasing the palm of the funeral home director (who also used Lestrade’s business to supplement his income) they were allowed a private audience with the deceased before the service.

Sherlock rounded on Lestrade at the door. “I would like to do this one alone,” he said. “I have a few things I need to get off my chest. Clear the air.”

Lestrade licked his lips and crossed his arms, settling in for an argument he knew they didn’t have time for. “What do you have to say that’s so personal?”

Sherlock drew himself up, hands gripped tightly behind his back, chin held high. “I want to apologise.” he said.

Lestrade made a gallant effort to keep from smirking. “Apologise for what?” he asked.

He lost his posture and dropped his eyes. “Simply one of those foolish things children do to each other. I need closure.”

“Fine.” Lestrade took a step into Sherlock’s personal space. He was one of the few allowed to do so. “You ask what happened first. Then you get your closure, alright? You only have one minute.”

“I know.”

“Sixty seconds.”

“I know!” Sherlock took a quick look around them and saw another mourner look at them before moving into her respective funeral. He took a breath. “I will. Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

“No,” Lestrade agreed. “But I’ve never seen you this emotional before.”

He stiffened. Yes, Lestrade was closer to him than most people, so it made sense he would notice small changes in behavior. Still, Sherlock hoped the changes weren’t large enough for anyone else to notice. God forbid Molly think anything were wrong.

Sherlock pulled himself together and nodded. “All of that will soon be rectified.”

Lestrade arched an eyebrow but nodded and stepped back from the door. Sherlock reached out to grip the handle. He opened the door and stepped inside. Suddenly sheltered from the outside world, Sherlock felt himself relax. Then, he caught sight of the coffin and his heart stopped.

John Watson, the little boy, now a dead man, who he hadn’t thought of in years. Strange that death should pull them apart, only to bring them back together again...

Sherlock shook himself. What was he thinking? There was no fate or destiny pushing them together. Simply the random happenings of human life. It was unfortunate that life was over for John Watson. He was Sherlock’s first friend, and if he were honest with himself, his first love. But that didn’t matter now. Catching John’s killer would be as good a repayment as any.

He walked over to the coffin and lifted the lid. There, inside the satin-lined box, lay John Watson in his military best. Though he would argue the feelings were long left behind with adolescence, Sherlock would be lying if he said the sight didn’t catch his heart a bit. Sherlock’s fingers itched to feel the brass buttons of the uniform. All images of the pudgy, yet energetic child he knew where dashed away, replaced by a vision of this strong soldier. He slipped off a glove as he pondered where to touch.

The nose? Seemed too comical for the situation. Lips? Too forward, and a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to wade into yet. The cheek?

The cheek.

Sherlock reached out and pressed the pad of his index finger to the fleshy area over John’s left zygomatic. A spark shot between their skin and Sherlock barely had time to pull back before two hands seized his lapels and thumped him soundly against the lid of the coffin.

He staggered back, hand holding his aching forehead. It gave John time to climb out of the coffin and fall into a fighting stance. “What’s going on here?” he said, rather a bit loud for a funeral parlor.

His head still swimming, Sherlock held his hands up in surrender. “Do you remember the boy who lived across from you when you were ten?”

A spark of recognition flickered across John’s face. “Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded.

John dropped his guard and stood up straight. “Wow. How are you? It’s been so long.”

“I’m well,” Sherlock said. “But you need to look at where you are.”

John turned and looked at the coffin, then down at himself. “My dress uniform...”

“My condolences.” Sherlock said. “That’s why I’m here. You need to tell me who killed you so he or she can be apprehended. The idiots down at Scotland Yard have ruled your death accidental, and I’m here to find out the truth. You only have a minute.”

John shook his head. He was doing remarkably well with this. “I don’t know who killed me. I was in the back of a cab, then you touched my cheek. That’s all.”

“Damn.” Sherlock cursed to himself. But it couldn’t be an accident...

“Well, thank you for, uh, trying.” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. You’re welcome.”

The seconds on his mental clock ticked by. He was always more accurate than any clock and he knew time was short. It was now or never.

“When we were young. That is to say, as a brilliant child I found it difficult to... other children were... I... appreciated your company.” No. That wasn’t what he wanted to say, but that’s all he could say.

Despite the less than glowing sentiment, John chuckled. “Appreciated? Is that all?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Though you were never very luminous yourself, as a conductor of my light, you were superb.”

John kept smiling. “You were my best friend too.” He shrugged. “Given more time, maybe it would’ve been more.”

“You were the first person I ever kissed.” The confession bubbled out of Sherlock’s mouth. It was still the wrong confession.

“Yeah? You were my first kiss too.” John said. He took a step towards Sherlock. “Would you like to be my last as well? Or is that too soppy?”

“It is.” Sherlock said and John’s smile started to fall. “However, given the situation, soppy seems appropriate.”

With a smile Sherlock was beginning to think of as “adorable,” John took another step towards him. His hands firmly locked behind his back, Sherlock squashed down the urge to touch John. One touch and it would all be over. Sherlock didn’t want it to be over.

John’s lips were only a few inches away, but Sherlock knew he could go no further. The clock in his head ticked past sixty seconds.

“What if,” Sherlock whispered, “you didn’t have to be dead?”

John opened his eyes, his smile slightly crooked now. “I would actually take that over dying, yeah.”

Sherlock knew another body had already taken John’s place. It was foolish to return him to his dead state now, not to mention wasteful of that other life. Even though the logic in his brain told him more problems would come, for the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself telling logic to take a flying header.

“We need a plan.” Sherlock stepped back from John and started looking around the room. The coffin! “Get back in the coffin.”

He thought he’s have to spend a few precious seconds convincing John, but John hopped right back in. No, Sherlock wouldn’t linger over that. Data to be analyzed later.

“I’ll come back for you.” Sherlock said as he helped lower the lid. “Just give me a few minutes.” He made sure the lid looked closed, but would still allow John escape if needed, then dashed out to door to make an excuse to Lestrade.

“He didn’t know,” Sherlock said before he’d even thought of what he would say. “He said he didn’t remember anything between a cab ride and speaking with me.” Which was suspect all in itself. No, think about that later.

“Really?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded. “Maybe it was an accident then,” he said. “Man out for a walk at night, ends up lost somewhere. Things happen.”

“My thinking exactly,” Sherlock lied. Usually, Greg wasn’t this stupid but any advantage his lack of intelligence gave Sherlock was helpful right now.

He took a step back. “I’m going to stay for the service. Pay my respects to the family and all that. I’ll take a cab home.”

Lestrade looked at him for a very long, interminable fifteen seconds before nodding. “Alright. I’ll call if anything else turns up.”

As soon as Greg was on his way to the door, Sherlock raced back into the room. Just in time to see the back door of a herse slam shut. “No!” Sherlock shouted.

He was about to run after it, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Heart still thumping, he walked over to the heavy damask of the curtains and pulled one back. Standing there, was John Watson, hand cupped over his mouth as he tried to control his laughter.

“Your face!” He laughed louder.

“How did you know?” Sherlock couldn’t stop panting, pulling in air as his heart sped off the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Right after you walked out, I heard noise at the other door. I got out of the coffin and hid.”

“How did you compensate for the weight?” he asked. Coffins were heavy, yes, but funeral home employees would definitely feel the difference between and empty casket and an occupied one.

John nodded toward the door. “Two big potted plant things. I managed to put them in and get the lid down just in time.”

A very strange look came over Sherlock’s face, one he hadn’t made for nearly twenty years. John knew that look very well, as it almost always accompanied their adventures together. Once again, the Game was on.

“I would kiss you if it wouldn’t kill you.” Sherlock said. John just smiled.

Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to fiddle with his gloves. Once he was sure his skin was covered, he grabbed John’s hand. “Come. This way.” he said, and led them out the back of the funeral home.

When fresh air touched his skin, John threw his head back and laughed. Even in Afghanistan with bullets whizzing by his head, he’d never felt this alive. He was a boy again, off on an adventure with the boy he loved more than life.

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had Mrs. Hudson down as one of the aunts. But since I had Harry as an aunt, I thought making Clara the other aunt would be much more interesting. Then, the betrayal of having a baby wouldn't be "over a man" so much as breaking the vows of a partnered relationship. It works in my head and I might even get far enough in this to make something of that.


	3. The Game is On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finds out that John is still alive. That doesn't mean he'd say no to a new business partner, especially one with inside information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. A combination of computer problems, and trying to think of a convincing way to involve the Aunts took longer than planned.
> 
> Not beta'd and my S key is sticky. If anyone finds typos, please pop them in with your comment and they will be fixed. Thanks!

Our cast of players

 

The Piemaker: Sherlock Holmes

Chuck: John Watson

Olive: Molly Hooper

Emerson Cod: Greg Lestrade

Aunt Lily: Harriet Watson

Aunt Vivian: Clara Watson

Digby: Redbeard

 

“I can’t touch you at all,” John said. They’d been discussing “the Rules” for about ten minutes now, and he kept circling back to that part. “Hold on! You grabbed my hand back at the funeral parlor!” Sherlock held up his hands, showing the gloves. John raised an eyebrow at that. “How many dead people do you keep around?”

“Just you,” Sherlock said quickly. “I find the gloves help keep the world at bay. When people see them, they don’t want to get very close, which suits me.”

For the first time in hours, John wasn’t smiling. “The boy I remember was excited for the world. Do you want to keep me at bay too?”

“The boy you remember lost his mother and his best friend in the same day and then got shut up in a boarding school. He had to adapt. I know it was the same with you, but at least you had your aunts and no one was pressuring you to be suddenly fine with it all.” He took a breath. “But I would never want to keep you away.”

Slowly, John reached out and took Sherlock’s gloves hand in his. “We can touch like this, yeah?”

“Prophylactically, yes.”

“Right.” His smile slowly slid back into place. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They sat there frozen for a moment, their hands twined together on the countertop. John thought how nice it was to have Sherlock back again. How, after all the lonely years, his happiness could return with his mad, completely brilliant best friend. The last few hours had quickly shown that time had changed very little between them. He had changed and Sherlock had changed, but _they_ hadn’t changed at all.

Sherlock could only think about how nice it was to be touched. Even prophylactically.

“Well,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Not that the uniform doesn’t suit you, but we should get you into something less... conspicuous.”

John followed him up to his flat, just above the Pie Hole and its stucco-crust awning. Sherlock’s flat was a lot like the man himself: understated and quiet in some ways, loud and flashy in others. The skull mugs in the pantry for one thing.

As soon as they entered the living room, a red Irish setter met them with a happy bark. “Hello boy.” John knelt down to pet the dog.

“This is Redbeard,” Sherlock said.

John continued petting. “Wasn’t that you old dog’s name?”

“This is him.”

He turned to look at Sherlock, fingers still scratching behind Redbeard’s ears. “Do this often?” he half joked.

“It’s only you two,” he said quickly. “You’re the only ones I’ve ever brought back to stay,” he lied.

“Well aren’t we an exclusive club?” John asked Redbeard. He gave the dog a few more pats, then stood up.

“It really is,” Sherlock said, suddenly very interested in his shoes. “It’s not like I go around reviving childhood mates all the time. It was always just you and Redbeard.”

“I know,” John said before he could bow under too much guilt. “I understand that you don’t do this willy-nilly.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Well...”

“What?”

He took a step back. “Hear me out. It isn’t willy-nilly at all, but there is a... business aspect to it.”

“Business,” John repeated.

“I have a business partner,” Sherlock said. He wasn’t sure if he was explaining or digging himself deeper. Either way, he couldn’t stop. “He’s a private investigator named Lestrade. We find dead people, I wake them up and ask who killed them, then we split the reward money.”

John didn’t say anything for a moment and Sherlock took that moment to panic a bit more. “There’s more to it and it is very altruistic. I’m afraid I’m too tired to explain properly and I’m giving you all sorts of horrible ideas about me. Could we talk about it tomorrow?”

John, to his credit, accepted that. He nodded. “Yeah, alright.” He liked to think his soldier’s discipline kept the hurt off his face. Would he have ever seen Sherlock again if he hadn’t been a victim of foul play? If he told him who his killer was, would John still be alive now? Too many questions and what-ifs that had nearly gotten in the way of the most exhilarating day of his life... death.

Yet as Sherlock pointed him to the upstairs bedroom and a closet full of clothes that should fit, one question played the loudest in John’s mind.

Who was offering the reward?

~

Up in Sherlock’s spare bedroom, John stared up at the ceiling. This was the first chance he’d had for a proper think. He was embarrassed to say it was also the first time since being alive again that his thoughts turned to his aunts.

Aunt Harriet--Harry to the family--and her partner Aunt Clara were the ones to take him in when his father died. Aunt Harry was his father’s step-sister, but she loved him unconditionally and took care of him as her own. She and Aunt Clara had been together since John was five, and they both loved him dearly.

They met during their careers as synchronized swimmers and their love quickly blossomed. They were the Darling Mermaid Darlings, and they were the best partner syncro act that ever lived. John had many fond memories of his father taking him to the pool to see their act. That all changed when Harry had an unfortunate accident. While cleaning the litter box, she got dirty cat sand in her eye. With the loss of her eye, they lost their careers. Harry sunk into a deep depression and took Clara with her.

Then, there was John. At the tender age of twelve, he took it upon himself to make sure that his aunts didn’t retreat too far from the world. He would read the paper to them and point out interesting activities around town that they could attend as a family. When that didn’t work, he staged plays in their living room, but would leave out the ending to entice them to see the real one. It never took, but he was never daunted. If he could get the Aunts out of the house at least once a year, he figured he was doing all right.

He kept bees in their backyard and harvested honey for the homeless. The proceeds went to the local homeless shelters and the Aunts would stand by and smile at his efforts. Sure, he didn’t get out much, but he had so much to live for in them. He even became a doctor so he could better take care of them.

But the day came when that was not enough. Happy, nostalgia-tinged memories of his adventures with Sherlock followed him through young adulthood and he knew he had to get out. He joined the military, hoping all his skills as a doctor and his life spent caring for shut ins with their own form of Post Traumatic Stress would be helpful on the battle field. The Aunts were sad to see him go, but they knew John’s sense of duty would not let him sit by while people needed help.

Getting shot in Afghanistan was the first time John thought he would never see them again. He survived the shot to the shoulder, and after months in a recovery hospital, he returned home to his aunts with a smile worn at the edges and a psychosomatic limp. Sherlock didn’t know about that part. Racing around with him again made it fall away. Or maybe it was dying that did it.

Now, with Sherlock’s Rules discussion fresh in his ears, John knew--for the third time--he would never see his aunts again.

Why did it have to be like this? Sherlock explained, of course, that anyone from his past would be shocked and confused after seeing his death so publicised. Then they would have to lie about Sherlock, and too many lies all together would make the truth slip out at one time or another. He couldn’t expose Sherlock like that, not after the gift he’d given him and not after all they’d meant to each other.

John would just have to find a way around Sherlock’s Rules.

~

John woke up the next morning to find a note on the pillow beside him. He briefly thought it to be some happy goodmorning greeting and opened it right away. He found five words, and none of them were “Goodmorning.”

_Do not leave this flat._

_S_

He should’ve remembered that this was Sherlock he was dealing with. Obviously, Sherlock didn’t remember that he, in turn, was dealing with John Watson.

He got up and dressed in some borrowed clothes. Sherlock was much taller than he, and the shirts definitely had a little too much length in the arms, but it wasn’t a bad fit. A little tight for his tastes. He found a hat (a deer stalker, oddly enough) and a pair of sunglasses and made his way out of the flat.

He heard an echo of another door closing and looked behind him. A woman stood at the flat next door, her hand hanging in midair as she finished locking up.

“I’m a friend of Sherlock’s,” he said quickly.

This seemed not to be the right answer. The woman’s brows drew together. “Sherlock has friends?” she asked.

“Yes.” He knew that Sherlock could be... difficult, but even having heard it from the man himself, John was still getting used to this idea of Sherlock as an unbearable ogre. “I just got back from Afghanistan and Sherlock said I could stay a bit to catch my breath.” None of that was necessarily a lie. “Uh, I’m John...” He nearly gave his last name before remembering the somewhat public aspect of his death.

He reached out to shake her hand and she took it. “Molly,” she said. “I’m the waitress down in the Pie Hole.”

“Fancy that.” John smiled. “Mind showing me down?”

~

“Alright.” Greg slid into the booth seat. Sherlock sat on the other side of the table, brooding into his coffee. “What happened yesterday?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock didn’t look up from the coffee. He’d been staring and not drinking it for nearly half an hour now, as if the secrets of the world were held at the bottom of that cup and he was too afraid to go looking for them. He was.

“I’m not stupid,” Lestrade said. He ignored Sherlock’s doubtful snort and kept talking. “Your childhood sweetheart snuffs it--” Sherlock’s head snapped up and Greg took a second to smirk. “Yeah, I caught that one too. He snuffs it, definite foul play, then you wake him up to have a chat and afterwards it’s all sunshine and roses? I don’t think so.”

Sherlock bristled. “Are you accusing me of sentiment?”

Lestrade ignored the bait. “I’m accusing you of being a person.” Sherlock’s shoulders started to sag as the fight drained out of him. “If you need a break from this one, some time to clear your head, we can do that. I have enough to go on and I can see this one through.”

“And collect the whole reward,” Sherlock grumbled.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Now I know you need some time away from this. You always take pot shots at me when you’re having _emotions_.” He waved his hands at the word and Sherlock scowled. If only Lestrade knew... He would tell him, soon even, but how to go about it was tricky.

The bell on the door jingled as Molly walked in. And--Sherlock’s breath caught--John. He slid into the booth next to Lestrade as Molly leaned against the back, all smiles.

“Look who I found upstairs,” she said. “Doesn’t he look a lot like that dead soldier?”

Lestrade fixed his best shit-eating grin on Sherlock. “He looks exactly like that dead soldier.” He wasn’t fooled. And why should he be? Lestrade was no fool.

John slid off the dark glasses and looked at Lestrade. “Are you the business partner?” he asked.

Before this could get any farther, Sherlock looked up at Molly and nodded towards the kitchen. “Pie.”

She nodded. “Pie.” She stopped at the kitchen door and shook her head at the sheer number of pies covering every available surface. “Haven’t we talked about the stress baking?”

Once Molly was out of earshot, Lestrade leaned across the table and glared at Sherlock. “What’s he doing here? He’s supposed to be in the ground!” he hissed.

“ _He_ is sitting right next to you,” John said. “And he would like to discuss business. You’re investigating my murder, correct?”

“Police ruled it an accident.” Lestrade said, straightening up in his seat.

“Well the police are stupid sometimes,” John said. Sherlock allowed himself a small, pleased little smile. “Sherlock said you guys talk to murder victims, ask who killed them, then collect the reward. I suggest we do that with my reward. Thirty-thirty-forty split? I did die for it.”

“I can do thirty-thirty-forty.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “You said he should be in the ground not one minute ago! And now you’re on board with him?”

He shrugged. “If the dead soldier wants to help us, who am I to stand in the way of inside information? You and I, however, still need to have a conversation.” Using the rugby shove he’d learned at Uni, Lestrade pushed John out of the seat so he could get by. A former rugby man himself, John could easily push back, but didn’t want to stoke the ire of his new business partner.

Lestrade herded Sherlock into the kitchen. “What the hell?” he hissed. “Why is he still alive?”

Sherlock’s lips were poised to lie, but the truth came out instead. “I couldn’t do it,” he said. “I saw him and I talked to him, and he made me remember what it was like to be normal. I didn’t think, I just did it.”

“You always think!”

“There’s a first time for everything!”

Lestrade took a breath. It wouldn’t do for their shouting to alert Molly to anything. God forbid she overhear...

“I’m sensitive to your situation,” Lestrade finally said. “I understand that this is hard and isolating for you. But that does not mean you get to keep whoever the hell you want alive!”

“Why not?” Sherlock said. “This is my curse. Why can’t I use it to help myself?”

“That is what we do! Or have you forgotten about the fifty thousand pound reward we’re all supposedly splitting?”

“He makes me happy.” Sherlock knew he was fighting dirty. For all Lestrade liked to keep things professional, they were friends. He did care about Sherlock’s happiness and Sherlock cared about his. That’s mostly why he never mentioned the estranged wife and daughter he knew Lestrade had.

Lestrade held up his hands. “Fine. But you’ll have to explain the price to him when the other shoe finally drops. Do you know who died instead?”

He nodded and pulled the day’s newspaper out of his apron pocket. “Lawrence Schatz, the funeral home director.”

Lestrade grabbed the paper from his and read the article. “He was a business associate of mine.”

“I don’t control it. It’s a random proximity thing.”

Lestrade quelled the urge to smack Sherlock with the newspaper. “I was in proximity.”

“Which is why I’m pleased it wasn’t you.”

This time, Lestrade did hit him with the paper. As Sherlock rubbed the back of his head, the kitchen door swung open. They both looked up to shoo Molly away only to find John standing there, a hang dog guilty look across his face, deer stalker held in his hands.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest,” he said.

“Well that makes two of you,” Lestrade mumbled. Sherlock’s sharp elbow found its way into his ribs.

It didn’t matter, John wasn’t paying attention to Lestrade. His eyes were focused on Sherlock as if he were the only person on the planet. And Sherlock was looking back at him. “When I said I didn’t know who killed me, that wasn’t quite true. I don’t know who killed me, but I know why.

“I love my aunts. They saved me from a lonely life and I can never repay them for it. But their life was quiet and secluded. All those years cooped up behind their fence made me want more. I joined the army to get some excitement. I got shot.” Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on John’s shoulder for a fraction of a second. He knew there was something.

John continued, “When I got back, everything was the same. The same shut in aunts, the same house, the same fence. They thought the army scared me from action and they were wrong. It fed me. I wanted more. You know how it was when we were kids, I always wanted the adventure to continue. I even took a job as a trauma surgeon at Barts A&E to get some excitement there. Shockingly,” he sighed “they were well staffed and they didn’t need me more than once a week. It wasn’t enough.

“One day, when I was in London, I ran into an old friend of mine. Mike Stamford. We were in school together at Bart’s but he’d recently switched careers. Now, he owns Speedy Bart’s Speedy Courier. He said it was all completely on the up and up, but now and again, he did have some... high risk jobs. He asked if I would be interested.”

“And you said yes,” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded. “I did. I took dodgy jobs delivering questionable parcels to back alleys lined with thugs. It was the best I’d felt since the war.” He dropped his eyes, looking away from Sherlock for the first time. “I came back and my aunts expected everything to be the same. They wanted me to go back to the same sheltered life and I couldn’t do that. So I started taking dodgy jobs from Mike because it made me feel alive again.”

“Until it made you dead,” Lestrade said.

John nodded. “The night I was killed, I had just picked up a package from Mike. A steel briefcase, the heavy duty kind used for diamond couriers. There was a phone inside. A smart phone with a pink case.”

“A pink phone?” Lestrade asked. “You died for a pink phone?”

John ignored him. “Mike said it wasn’t worth much, just sentimental value.”

“If it was worth killing for, obviously not,” Sherlock said. “Did you make the delivery?”

“Yes and no,” John said. “I was in a cab on my way there when the cabbie pulled into some empty car park. Next thing I know, we’re both outside on the pavement. He’s got this scary long needle, and then everything went black. Then I woke up in a coffin.”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes suddenly sad instead of alight with new information. “You said you didn’t know who killed you.”

John was about to explain when Lestrade waved a hand between the two. “Talk about that later, yeah? Right now we need to go see your Mike friend. Figure out what he really knew about this.”

“How do you know Mike knows anything?” John asked. “He’s not a bad bloke, he never put me in more danger than I could handle.”

Lestrade smirked. “That fifty-thousand pound reward? It’s being offered by Speedy Bart’s Speedy Courier.”

To be continued


	4. The Aunts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows more than he's letting on. If he's not careful, the people he loves might get hurt...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken way too long. I've been both unmotivated to write, and burred in ideas for new projects, which is an annoying combination. I wanted to wrap things up this chapter, but it felt very rushed. So there will be more after this! At least one wrap up chapter. I decided not to do more (right now) and just be happy with what I've done. I hope everyone enjoys.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, any my S key is sticky. If you spot a typo, please include it with your comment and it'll be taken care of.

Our cast of players

 

The Piemaker: Sherlock Holmes

Chuck: John Watson

Olive: Molly Hooper

Emerson Cod: Greg Lestrade

Aunt Lily: Harriet Watson

Aunt Vivian: Clara Watson

Digby: Redbeard

 

Speedy Bart’s Speedy Courier was, for all intents and purposes, a legitimate business. Ninety percent of Mike Stamford’s business was made up of completely legal, run of the mill courier jobs. That did not change the fact that the ten percent one would consider... in opposition to the law, spoke for about ninety-five percent of the business’ profits. But Mike was careful. He was careful with which illegal jobs he gave to which courier, and John Watson had been his best man. Having him turn up dead on a job was... unfortunate.

Lestrade opened the door to Mike’s establishment and immediately cursed. “Bollocks.”

“What is it?” John asked.

Lestrade stepped into the office to let the others get an eyeful of the situation. Mike Stamford sat at his desk, a cheery pink plastic sack over his head.

“Damn it.” John sighed and walked over, pulling the bag off Mike’s head. “He’s been dead for hours. CPR is not an option. Is that how they found me?”

“If they’d found you like that it wouldn’t have been ruled an accident,” Lestrade said. “The coroner did find a needle mark, but nothing in your blood work.”

“Air embolism,” John whispered. Everything was coming together now. If the cabbie knocked him out and gave him an air injection, there would be no poison to find.

“Would explain the needle,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, sure. Can we get back to the new body?” Lestrade said. “Touch him.”

With one final scowl, Sherlock turned his attention to Mike. He sat down in front of the desk and looked at John. “You should ask the questions.” John nodded. Sherlock pulled off his right glove and touched the back of Stamford’s fleshy hand.

The man sprang up like the first daisy of spring. He blinked at the room around him before seeing John. “John! Holy hell, I thought you were dead!”

“I am,” John said through a forced smile. “You are too. Listen here: you get to talk for about a minute--”

“Fifty-six seconds,” Sherlock said.

“You tell me about what happened to you and any other relevant information. Then you go back to being dead. Sound good?”

“I’m sorry, John,” Mike said. “I knew the job was dangerous, but you were my best man! I knew if anyone could get through that situation, you would.”

“What situation?” John asked. “Why did I get killed for a pink phone?”

“You looked in the case,” Mike whispered to himself. “Nah, it doesn’t matter. Do you remember those weird serial suicides last year?”

John nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“The last victim, Jennifer Wilson. That was the name the client used,” he said. “I figured it could be a coincidence. Wilson’s a common second name.” He shook his head. “Something about it bugged me, though. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, even as I was settin’ up the meet. I figured if anyone could figure it out, it would be you. You were always so clever John! You’d sus it in a minute.”

Before John could think of his next question, Mike was already looking at Sherlock and Lestrade. “Who are they, then?” he asked.

John nodded to the side of the room. “That’s Lestrade. I don’t really know him.” His voice softened and he started to smile, just a little bit, when he looked at Sherlock. “This is Sherlock. He was my best mate when we were growing up.”

Mike’s “business” smile slotted into place. “Nice to meet you, Mike Stamford.” Before Sherlock could pull back, Mike grabbed at his hand to shake it. The little spark of life left him and Mike was a corpse once again.

Sherlock stood up, knocking over the chair in his haste. “Why would he do that?” he whispered.

“You couldn’t have moved back?” Lestrade said with a sigh.

“I didn’t expect an attack handshake! Who does that?” He pulled his glove back on and stepped away from the desk.

John shrugged. “He does. It’s a ruthless business and grabbing for things works.” He looked at Sherlock, then Lestrade. “What do we do now?”

Sherlock exchanged a look with Lestrade. They both remembered the serial suicides. It was before their... partnership, and Sherlock had itched to work on that case. But he hand no police contacts to inform of his theories, and there was no way the Met was going to involve outside investigators like Lestrade.

Back then, the phone had stuck in his mind. The woman, Jennifer Wilson, was something of a media personality, yet there was no phone or mobile device on her. Sherlock didn’t believe in coincidence and he knew her phone must have been taken. Taken by the killer as a trophy was most likely, but all the other victims had their mobiles. She was an outlier, and Sherlock loved outliers.

He had to assume the killer had taken it by mistake, or perhaps she managed to snap a photo of him and he wanted the evidence destroyed. Then why not simply delete the photo? Why take the mobile?

“John,” Sherlock said, emerging from the recesses of his thought process. “You said you never made it to the delivery, correct?”

“Right,” John said. “The cab stopped before I got there and the driver killed me. Why?”

“I think that man might’ve had interest in the phone,” he said. “He probably took the briefcase.”

“Damn.” Lestrade shook his head. “We’ll never catch him now.”

A slow, sly smile was stretching across John’s lips. “Maybe,” he said. “If the phone was in the briefcase.” He paused a second to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock confused before continuing, “When he started to go off course, I knew something was up. It’s happened before: someone knows something about the delivery and decides to hold me up to get the package. I thought that’s where it was heading and popped the phone out of the briefcase. Stuck it in my inside jacket pocket.”

“He might’ve searched you,” Lestrade said.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes bright and wide. “He probably assumed John was a low-level flunkey, completely unaware of what he had. A low-level man wouldn’t look inside the case, so he had no fear his prize wouldn’t be there. He took the case, dumped John’s body in the nearest abandoned building and set off. By the time he had a chance to check on his cargo, the police would’ve already found John and he wouldn’t be able to go back.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock turned to the detective. “What does the morgue do with one’s clothing after the body is released?”

He shrugged. “Depends. If it’s evidence, they send it to the police. John was ruled an accident, so they probably released his clothing with the body. His next of kin would have it.”

All the blood left John’s face. What was a giddy adventure not three seconds ago had suddenly turned deadly for someone other than him. “My aunts.”

~

Harry and Clara Watson were devastated by the death of their nephew. Though they’d long resisted his efforts to get them out of the house, he was still their connection to the outside world. After burying him, they started to retreat further away from the world they were no longer tied to.

Harry, as was her custom, turned to drink. Clara took to quietly sobbing over family photo albums. If only whoever knocked at the door would leave them alone in their grief.

Clara took a moment to dry her eyes. “I’ll go see who that is.”

“Take this,” Harry said, offering her shot gun.

Clara shook her head and walked to the door. Harry knew she wouldn’t use one of those awful guns of hers. She also knew full well that Clara had a stun gun hidden in the flower pot next to the door. It had been a present from John.

With one final sad though, she opened the door.

~

“Please, Sherlock,” John pleaded from the backseat of the car. “I just want to make sure they’re all right. It’s my fault they’re in danger.”

“You can’t see them,” Sherlock said. With his hands gloved once again, he didn’t see any harm in John sitting in the front seat... Yes, he did. It was too dangerous. He couldn’t let emotions overrule his logic. That’s why they were in this situation to begin with. “They think you’re dead. If you showed up at their door a day and a half after the funeral, the shock might kill them. Or worse.”

“What’s worse than death?” John asked.

“Do you remember what happened to Frankenstein’s monster?” Sherlock whispered.

John shook his head. “That wouldn’t happen. They would never hurt me.”

This time, Sherlock reached back and took John’s hand. His own fingers perspired inside the gloves, but feeling the pressure of John’s skin almost against his made things a little better. “People do horrible things when confronted with something they don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s eyes were focused on their hands, so he didn’t see John’s mouth turn down as he started putting the pieces together. “You sound like you speak from experience.” Sherlock said nothing and John shook his head. “The more I learn about your life, the more I regret not being there to protect you.”

For once, Lestrade picked the perfect moment to interrupt. “Sherlock. Let’s go.”

Sherlock nodded and gave John’s hand a quick squeeze before getting out of the car. John leaned out the open window and watched them walk through the gate he knew so well, up the path he missed, and knock on the door of his old house.

Sherlock knocked on the door and it opened wide enough to catch the chain. Half of a face appeared, one tear-streaked eye running mascara. “Who is it?” the woman asked.

“Hello,” Sherlock said. “My name is Sherlock. I used to live across the street.”

The eye squinted for a second, then widened. “The Holmes boy?”

“Yes,” he said. “John and I were... we were best friends.”

The door closed and opened again just as quickly. Sherlock recognized the woman as John’s Aunt Clara. Though she was a little older, her bright red hair faded to more of a rust colour, she looked every bit like the sweet woman who used to visit John and bring him exotic sweets from their travels. She always made sure to bring enough to Sherlock as well.

“Sherlock,” she said with a smile. “My, you’ve sprung up like a weed!”

“Who is it?” another female voice called from inside the house. This one had more gravel in it, too much smoking and far too much drinking. That had to be Aunt Harry.

“It’s the Holmes boy!” Clara answered. “Oh, come in, come in.” She grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and hauled him inside. Lestrade tried to stifle his laughter as he followed along.

The inside looked about the same as it always had. John’s father’s photos of the far away places he’d lived in were replaced with photos of John in the various stages of growing up. Swimming, getting on the school bus, at Christmas dinner with his aunts. Sherlock didn’t have any memories like that. His eyes scanned over the photos on the walls. John with his father, John coming home the day he was born, John’s tenth birthday.

The latter photo caught his eye, specifically, the dark-haired little slip of a boy sitting next to John. It was him. He’d forgotten all about that day. John was a few months older than Sherlock, so his birthday was always first. No matter how old they were, he’d always make sure Sherlock had the seat right next to him, so if he missed any candles, Sherlock would be there to save his wish. He knew it was an idiotic fantasy, even at that age, but he never told John his disbelief. He believed in John and that was all that ever seemed to matter.

“I remember this,” he whispered to himself, not even aware he’d said it outloud.

“Yes,” Clara said. “You two always had so much fun at John’s birthdays.” She pat Sherlock’s shoulder and gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit down.” They sat, and Clara bussied herself getting cups of tea and a tray of cheese for them. Harry just glared at them over the top of her martini. Even her eyepatch seemed to glare, which Sherlock knew was absurd.

“Is there any reason you fancied a stroll down memory lane so late at night?” she asked.

“We came to give our condolences,” Sherlock said. “I missed you at the funeral and wanted to speak with you about him.”

“That’s so very nice of you,” Clara said.

Sherlock nodded. “I wanted to tell you how very much John meant to me.” He gave Lestrade a sidelong glance, as if challenging him to ridicule Sherlock for anything he was about to say. “We hadn’t seen each other for a long time, but his death saddened me. Even after all these years, he was the best friend I ever had.”

Clara’s eyes welled up a bit and she covered her mouth with her hand. Even Harry seemed moved by Sherlock’s words as she shifted behind her glass. “It was good of you to come by,” Harry conceded. “I remember how much John liked you.”

~

Outside, John was pacing around Sherlock’s car. He was never good at sitting still, especially when he was left out of something important. He should be in there, protecting his aunts, not standing outside while Sherlock made small talk (that thought alone made John shudder) and trying to get around the the fact that they might be in danger. John Watson was a man of action, not a man of waiting.

A few minutes passed and he couldn’t take it anymore. He headed towards the back of the house to climb the trellis outside of his window. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing for his aunts to allow an adolescent boy to remain in the bedroom with the easy to climb trellis outside the window. He never used it for that. Sherlock was the only person he’d ever want to sneak out to see, and Sherlock wasn’t there when hormones hit. Mostly, John would sneak out to check in on his bees when he was supposed to be in bed. All that practice had it’s advantages. John quickly climbed the latticework wood and stood on the balcony outside his room.

He pushed open the doors and sighed happily. The smells of his aunt’s house--his house--washed over him. Clean laundry, mixed with gin, cheese and honey. It had only been a few days and already he missed those smells more than he imagined he would. He suddenly found himself wondering why he ever wanted to get out of this world? A world where people loved him and loved that he took care of them. Where the Aunts made him tea with his honey mixed in while he worked on recarpeting the stairs, or washing the dishes. And at night, they’d sit in the living room and read to each other, or watch telly (which they bought when John was thirteen as a birthday surprise) or listen to the victrola. It wasn’t a bad life, not at all.

As John walked around his room, he saw all the little things he’d looked at a million times, seeing them with new eyes. The photo album filled with pictures of his dad in his French Foreign Legion days, when he fought his way through deserts and saved people. Those adventures were the first bedtime stories he’d ever known.

That’s why he’d left. His father was a man of action, and so was John. Hiding behind his aunts’ shutters could only last so long. He needed adventure, he needed to see the world, and it finally looked like he’d gotten his chance.

John focused on his task: he put the phone in his inside jacket pocket. If it was still there...

His jacket was laying across the end of the bed. It almost looked like he would grab it any second. Now, he finally would. He picked it up and rooted through the pockets and found the pink phone exactly where it should be. He didn’t have time now, but as soon as they got back to the Pie Hole, he was going to figure out why this was worth his life.

A creak on the stairs sent his ears twitching. Nearly thirty years in this house listening to those creaks, and he could tell someone was ascending the bottom step. He pocketed the phone and ran out to the balcony, closing the doors and curtains behind him.

Through the crack in the curtain, he watched Aunt Harry walk over to the bed and pick up the coat. She took a moment to run her fingers over the folds and sigh to herself. John ached to run out and give her a hug, even if that might give her a heart attack.

Never a deeply emotional woman, she let the moment pass. Folding the jacket over her arm, she went back downstairs to join the others. John would have to find a way to tell Sherlock he had the phone. No need for them to panic.

He was about to make the climb back down when a crash inside the house alerted him. Not thinking, John whirled around and shoved open the balcony doors.

~

Harry went upstairs to get John’s jacket. Lestrade was munching on some cheese and crackers, still trying to figure out how Sherlock talked them into giving him John’s coat. He’d known for a long time that Sherlock could sell ice to penguins, he just hadn’t seen it in practice much. Sherlock was lingering over the photos again. He was fixated on the birthday photos.

“John’s tenth birthday,” he whispered. “It was a few weeks before our parents died.” He closed his eyes and remember the party. The half chocolate, half vanilla cake (because John didn’t like chocolate and Sherlock did, and John always thought of him) and the ten candles. They made the smallest of flames, but to Sherlock, they might as well have been bonfires. Most of his memories of John were happy, but nothing stood out in his memory like that birthday party, perhaps because it was so close to the end of his happiness.

“I remember,” Clara whispered. Her hand lay on his shoulder and Sherlock made an effort not to flinch. “You two were always so happy when you were together. Then your father took you away.”

Sherlock straightened enough to urge her hand off his shoulder. “I should go see what’s keeping Harry.” With a nod to Clara he quickly made his way up the stairs.

“It’s not you,” he heard Lestrade say around a mouthful of cheese. “He’s not very good with emotions.”

The conversation was thrown from his mind as soon as he rounded the corner of the landing. There, he saw Harry Watson sprawled on the floor with a plastic sac over her head, the same kind they’d found on Mike. Before he could call out, the same suffocating plastic sealed over his head.

Sherlock dropped his arm and elbowed the man in the stomach. He kicked his shins, he struggled, but nothing dislodged his attacker. His vision started to go spotty as his brain screamed for oxygen. The world started to go dark...

 

To be continued


	5. The Pink Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good thing John excels at danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking this might go longer, but I have too many writing projects right now and I hate not giving the proper attention to WIPs. I had a lot of fun writing this and I might continue in the future, for now, I'm happy with the successful cross over. :)
> 
> Not beta'd, so all typos are mine. If you find a typo, please include it along with your comment and it'll be seen it. Thanks an enjoy!

Our cast of players

 

The Piemaker: Sherlock Holmes

Chuck: John Watson

Olive: Molly Hooper

Emerson Cod: Greg Lestrade

Aunt Lily: Harriet Watson

Aunt Vivian: Clara Watson

Digby: Redbeard

 

Rippling plastic ripped past his ears and suddenly Sherlock could breathe again. He gulped down the oxygen, feeding his starved brain. He needed to think, needed to figure this out. The spots blocking his vision disappeared enough so he could see John, his hands around the attacker’s throat.

Blood ran from John’s nose--the man got a lucky shot--but John kept going. He pulled him back into the bedroom, towards the open balcony doors. The attacker had a good stone and a half on John and was trying his hardest to free himself. He threw his elbow back, looking for any target he could get. The point of his elbow connected with John’s injured shoulder in another lucky shot. Sherlock watched John’s arm spasm and his grip release. The man turned, ready to push John off the balcony.

Arms raised, he stopped. Even with his ski mask, Sherlock could see his wide eyes and gaping open mouth. “You’re dead!” he said.

Two barrels worth of buck shot streaked through the air and decorated the attacker’s torso. The force pushed him back over the railing and the crack of a broken neck met Sherlock’s ears.

Sherlock turned to see Harry and her shotgun. “I can hold my breath for a long time,” she said.

The blood drained from Sherlock’s face. She could see John--she’d know. His life of secrecy, destroyed in a matter of seconds. They’d take John away now, lock them both up in some lab and poke and prod at them. The thought turned Sherlock’s stomach. Something that had brought him nothing but misery was finally a source of joy, only to be ruined so quickly... he hadn’t even told John how he felt.

They all stood there, John and Sherlock staring at Harry, Harry’s one eye glaring at Sherlock.

John got it before he did. Moving slowly, he tapped at his eye. Of course! Had Harry possessed two good eyes, the whole game would be up. But John was standing in her blind spot. She couldn’t see him. They were safe.

Moving quietly, John climbed back down to the ground as Sherlock ushered Harry out of the room and shouted for Lestrade to phone the police. While he was giving his statement about the home invader Harry killed, he had to carefully monitor his facial expressions. Sherlock could never remember wanting to smile quite this much.

~

“Local celebrities Harry and Clara Watson--former synchronized swimming power couple--defended themselves against a home invasion last night. The assailant, taxi driver Jefferson Hope, was involved in the death of their nephew, Captain John Watson. On the night of his death, Watson was _believed_ to have a mobile phone that held the only evidence of Hope’s guilt in last year’s serial suicides. Police believe he killed Watson for the phone, only to find that it had been in his home all along. Harry and Clara Watson collected the reward money for the capture of the nephew’s killer and have hinted that they intend to use it for a Darling Mermaid Darlings comeback tour.”

Sherlock turned off the telly. “What a neat little bow,” he said.

“You’re not happy?” John asked.

A few days ago, Sherlock would’ve said he hadn’t been happy in a very long time. The events of last night led him to realign what he knew of his feelings, specifically, how he felt about John. No matter what secrets they had between them, they both enriched each other’s lives. Their partnership was beautiful and vibrant and _alive_ , and Sherlock wouldn’t change that for the world.

He turned and looked at John. He was leaning back on the counter, scratching Redbeard’s ears and looking intently at Sherlock, his eyes somewhat unreadable as if he were braced for emotional impact. “I’m satisfied the case is solved,” Sherlock said. “I’m disappointed by the fact that no one will truly understand it: no one will know you were there to protect your aunts, and no one will ever know how... happy I am to have you back in my life. While this case seems pivotal to me and you, no one will ever understand the larger significance of everything, and I feel sorry for that.”

John smiled up at Sherlock. “This case brought you back to life,” he said.

“ _You_ brought me back to life.”

John’s smile widened. “Just returning the favour.” Sherlock ducked his head to hide the warmth in his cheeks. He hadn’t blushed like this since he was a child, but leave it to John Watson to manage it.

He turned and started cleaning the flour off the baking surface. “Could you take Redbeard back upstairs?” he said. “We’re opening soon.”

Sherlock turned around and felt the sticky plastic of food wrap cover his face. Before he could even wonder why, John’s lips pressed against his. Sherlock’s brain stuttered for a moment. Years of keeping his distance and examining every move told him to pull back, it was dangerous. But he could have this now. With the prophylactic of the food wrap, John was safe. And John wanted to kiss him. Dare he think John loved him?

He tucked his arms behind his back and returned the kiss. So many years he’d denied himself this affection, he convinced himself he didn’t want it, that it was for other people who were less intelligent. But this was his now, he could have it. Even if there were complications, even if there were seemingly insurmountable obstacles, he had this. He had John.

Sherlock kissed until he ran out of breath, then he kissed for a moment more before leaning away. The cling wrap stuck to his lips for a moment and made him smile. Strings of saliva had never been this attractive.

John chuckled softly and stepped back before pulling the plastic wrap away from his face. Once he was at a safe distance, he binned the used piece and left the box on the counter. “I’ll take Redbeard for his walk and put him upstairs,” he said.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “And I’ll be sure to put more food wrap on the shopping list.”

They shared a smile and John bent down to pat Redbeard. “C’mon boy, let’s go for a walk.” Redbeard got up and followed John out of the kitchen.

The bell over the door jingled as Molly walked in. John walked by her and waved. “Morning, Molly.”

“Morning,” she greeted. She looked up and saw Sherlock standing at the kitchen counter, his eyes tracing John’s every movement... It was as she expected. She’d never seen the Piemaker so happy as he’d been since John’s arrival. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t hate John. After so many years watching Sherlock’s pain and frustration at the world around him, then his final withdrawal from it, she could never hate John for bringing out the vibrant, wonderful man she knew was in there. While she’d hoped she could be the one to bring him out of his shell, she was happy it happened at all.

“I’d rather see him happy,” she whispered to herself. _Happy, and in love with another_ , the little voice in her head whispered. She shook the thought from her head. Not all love lasted forever, and should John break Sherlock’s heart in the end... well, she’d be there to pick up the pieces. And who knew? Perhaps opening himself up like this would show him the other possibilities around him, and the things he’d been missing. She could be happy for Sherlock and John while still being hopeful, there was nothing wrong with that.

Molly put those feelings away to be examined later and went in the back to get her apron. The bell over the door jingled again when John opened it for Lestrade. The Pie Hole wasn’t open yet, but Lestrade often ignored the _closed_ sign.

“Morning, Greg,” John greeted him.

Lestrade nodded. “John. Where’s Sherlock?”

“Kitchen.”

Hearing his name, Sherlock poked his head around the wall. “What is it?”

A wide grin spread across Lestrade’s face. He held up the paper, showing the day’s headline: **MURDER?** “You interested in a conversation?” he asked.

A matching smirk stretched over Sherlock’s lips. His eyes went to John and saw him smiling as well. “I could be persuaded,” he told Lestrade.

The bell jingled again as John walked out with Redbeard, his laughter reverberating against the glass doors. Sherlock took a moment to put his first pies in the oven before washing flour off his hands and joining Lestrade at the front counter to hear the details.

Once again, the Game was on.

  
The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than I wanted, but I didn't want to add too much and make it more clunky than it needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Also: the only reason I included "major character death" in the archive warnings is because Chuck/John has to die for the story to start. That's the only one.
> 
> Also also: the rating may go up. It depends how deep into this I end up getting.


End file.
